


Loss: Revisited

by websters_lieb



Series: Are We Falling Together or Falling Apart [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mickey POV, Second Person, post 5x12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 09:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/websters_lieb/pseuds/websters_lieb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You wonder if he ever loved you, if he ever cared, or if it was just a fantasy that you made up in your head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loss: Revisited

You sit on the floor, legs sprawled in front of you as you lean against the wall in your bedroom.

In some foggy corner of your mind, you know that you should get up, you never meant to sit down, you stumbled over your own damn feet when you walked into the room and had found yourself unable to move. You need to stand up, keep on moving, because you can’t allow yourself to stop. If you stop then you’ll have time to think, and if you think then you know you’ll see something, something of _his_ or something that was yours but became _his_ because he had taken over every part of you, and suddenly you’ll feel the memories wash over you, attempt to surround you, to overtake you, and you can’t let that happen.

You know the memories aren’t true anymore, that the happiness you felt in them no longer exists, and if you allow yourself to think, to remember, then the gaping hole in your chest will just get wider and wider until it threatens to consume you. It’s where your heart should be, the hole, but you don’t have one anymore because you gave it to _him_ a long time ago, so you think that you should just be empty, but it hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You wonder if this is how people with phantom limbs feel, their loss burning away in the empty space, causing untreatable yet agonizing pain. Every breath aches with it, every thought rekindles it, every movement burns it into your skin. It’s a hurt that you can’t seem to drown, no matter how much you try to drink and snort and smoke it away, it remains as a constant sensation within your chest, growing larger until it’s vicious claws reach up and grab you by the throat, holding on until your breath is short and your eyes are watering.

So you need to move, need to stand up, need to push forward and keep on functioning, because you can’t afford to shut down. You have mouths to feed, bills to pay, a life to live, but a piece of fabric has caught your eye and you still can’t move. _His_ shirt is sitting on the floor across the room. It’s gray, with a few buttons leading down from the neckline, and you remember the last time you saw him wear it. It’s been more than a month since then, but you can see it with painful clarity. He had gone on a run, taking the baby with him, and when he had come back he had been disheveled, his hair falling into his eyes and sweat running down his back. Svetlana had taken the kid to god knows where, and you had been left facing each other, his eyes skimming along your body in a manner that made you shiver, and then he had been jumping at you, grabbing onto you, claiming you with a hot mouth and a firm grip.

You remember how happy you had been, with him moving against you, pleasure filling your body as one word reverberated throughout your mind, threatening to spill out of your mouth and into the air, a word that would give him power over you, a power you knew he already had. _Love_. It repeated like a mantra, and part of you wanted to say it, to let him know, but you couldn’t, not yet, so you had held your tongue and showed it instead. You had traced it into his skin with your fingertips, touching every part of him that you could reach. You had closed your eyes and placed your forehead against his, mouthing out the word against his lips, telling him over and over again. You had carved it into his soul, and you had thought that he had been doing the same for you, but now you’re not so sure.

Now even this quintessential memory is polluted, made dirty by the knowledge of what will happen later on. You wonder if he ever loved you, if he ever cared, or if it was just a fantasy that you made up in your head, because who would ever want _you_ , choose _you?_   Why would someone like _him_ , someone so beautiful and passionate and loved, choose you of all people, when you were always  _nothing_ compared to _him_. You think about how focused you were on him, and you wonder when you had started to loose him, when he had fallen into the darkness of his own mind without you noticing. You had always considered yourself an expert on him, dedicating yourself to knowing every part of him. How he looked when he was just waking up, how he sounded in the dead of night, how his eyes crinkled when he smiled. You had immersed yourself in him, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of your life learning his intricacies.

You can’t remember ever feeling closer to him than you had at that moment - when that gray shirt had been tossed into the corner of the room and he had held onto you for dear life. You had been awash with certainty, with the knowledge that you finally had something - someone - who was yours. Someone who cared about you, that looked at you like you hung the moon and the stars and the sun, but now you’re riddled with doubt. You wonder whether he never really loved you to begin with, or if he had fallen out of love. You wondered if it had been slow, or as quick as a shot, if he had woken up one day and looked at you and seen all your faults and hated you as much as you already hated yourself. You wonder if he had set out to hurt you, if he had always intended to take your heart and crush it into a million tiny pieces, turning it to dust. It’s stupid of you to think like that, and you’re repulsed at yourself for even considering it, because that’s not like _him_ , he would never do something like that. You think you know this, that it’s an unquestionable fact, and then your remind yourself that you don’t really know him, not anymore. He doesn’t want you to know him anymore.

You want to be angry at him, to hurt him like he’s hurt you, but the idea of making him feel the pain that’s currently running through your veins makes you sick. You want to shout at him, but you have no voice. You want to tell him that he’s wrong, to shake him and say that you would have worked through this together because you _always_ worked through it in the end - together, but instead you’re sitting on the floor, unable or unwilling to move. You want to ask him where it went wrong, where _you_ went wrong. You want to know how long it’s been since he last loved you, since he last wanted you. You want to know it all, but you’re afraid, afraid that he’ll say that he _never_ loved you, that you never had a chance to go wrong because you were never _right_ to begin with, that he had never truly cared.

You want to tell him that you’re sorry you ever met him, that you ever slept with him, that you ever learned his fucking name. You want to tell him that you regret learning his subtleties, that you regret kissing him for the first time in that van, you regret letting him under your skin - into every part of you. Some days you even convince yourself that that’s true.

You want to tell him that you wouldn’t change anything, that you would let yourself hurt for the rest of your life if it meant that you could keep those stolen minutes in your bed, when you had moved together perfectly, like you were made for each other.

You want to tell him you love him.

You want to tell him you hate him.

As your head lolls to the side absently, you try to convince yourself that he doesn’t still have you wrapped around his finger, that if he came back and asked for another chance you would tell him no, you would keep yourself from getting hurt again, but you know deep down that you’re far to weak for that. You know that you would go back to him, that you would forgive him for all of his mistakes and open yourself up all over again. He’s always had that effect on you, and you think that he always will, and that scares you more than anything. More than Terry. More than being gay. You hate the idea of having someone that can say one sentence and destroy you, and then piece you back together with a simple word. You hate that he means so much to you. You hate that he left you. You want to hate _him_ for leaving you, but you can’t, and you hate that too.

But you can’t let yourself sit here any longer, you can’t stew in self pity. So you pretend that you’re okay, that you don’t see an outline of his face every time you allow your eyelids to close, and you ignore the constant ache that fills your insides up with a searing fire. You’ve learned how to live without him before, you know how to manage the pain, how to count the seconds between each breath, how to focus on anything other than your endless memories of him. You know how to function.

You hoist yourself to your feet, you push yourself forwards, and you keep on moving.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly have no idea what this is, I was thinking about sad things and I started writing this in my head and the words started swirling around so I wrote it down and this happened. Go easy on me, second person is not my forte.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Come say hi at http://mickeyswaitingforme.tumblr.com


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